Closed Encounters of the GOP Kind!

Deep in an underground bunker somewhere below Devil’s Tower Monument in Wyoming, an increasingly petrified team of scientists are hard at work attempting to piece together the perfect GOP candidate for President of the United States in 2012. At the center of the bunker, walled off from the screams in the night from the imported Guantanamo carcasses, a dark figure resembling a recent US Vice President massages a still-beating heart fresh from the refrigerator before consuming it in a single bite. Lips are smacked as traces of red spittle spill from his lips. “Eye Gore! Come here, I need you!”

“Are you out of breath again, Master?” the reticent Eye Gore shouts into the speaker phone.

“No, you nitwit, “the Master shouts, “You know I have no lung apparatus anymore, I don’t need to breathe… I just need someone to wipe the drool from my chin!”

Eye Gore faithfully entered the Master’s space. Wiping drool was just one of the complications of developing the hardware and software for Project Close Encounters of the Manchurian Kind. This project went well beyond the imagination, inspiration and creation efforts in the Hall of Presidents at Disneyland. This was the stuff that Puppet masters dreams are made of…the Master had proven that someone powered from drool can create and fool. No Claymation software was required to animate a life-like cog in the spitting image of the Master’s madness. A little spot of human carcass, a dollop of random access memory, and a tablespoon full of public relations mastery, and suddenly the American public lets the medicine go down. It was genius, Eye Gore told himself.

Eye Gore had worked hard to research the elements required for a successful GOP street fighter to counter the forces of evil Watermelon addiction on the White House lawn. In a “post-racial” society, there could be no hint of “Segregation Now! Segregation Forever!” as the Master would chant in his sleep. Even if a GOP candidate was white, he had to be truly white… meaning no magic underwear. Standard BVD’s assured the public that testosterone still matters in the GOP. The time had not yet come for the Latter-Day under the Christian calendar. From there on, there needed to be only reverence to the basic principles of preventing taxes on the “job creators,” and making sure that all those jobs are created in places where minimum wage is just another word for maximum greed.

Of course, like any stroke of genius, occasionally there are failures. Sometimes there is disappointment, and sometimes there are catastrophes. Eye Gore recalled the bloody scene when one of his candidate creations had a software failure and was driven to the compound of one of the Master’s good friends in Abottabad, Pakistan. When the words “friend” was typed into the incident description, the Master’s creation immediately started shooting the Master’s friend in the face. It was fortunate that the Master had enough friends in high places to transfer responsibility for the incident to some Navy Seals. “Too much Sarah Palin testosterone in the mix on this one,” the Master said. “It’s not time to retreat, it’s time to reload.”

More recently, there had been a seeming success, with the “Texas governor” model. The Master had all the application interfaces modeled on his close relationship with a previous Texas governor. “What could go wrong,” Eye Gore had mused during the development stages.

While the Texas Governor model proved unbeatable in its initial rounds, soon, there was the unexpected failure brought on by too much “compassionate conservative” fuel in the mixture. The model had apparently poured a mixture of compassionate conservative fuel on his extensive mane prior to the debate. When confronted with a debate audience demanding the death penalty for anyone with a Latin-based name, the Governor model began to speak in religious tongues. “Forgive them, they know not what they do!” he said. Suddenly, the audience was staring at the candidate with the Magic underwear one more time.

Eye Gore considered himself a visible success of the Master’s technical skills. He had been created with the eye of a former US House Speaker, and from the contrarian spirits to the global warming battle of another former Vice President. He was fed from the bodily fluids of water-boarded terrorists who hated US Freedoms. His entire operating system would gladden the hearts of the most intense Holocaust denier, and motivate Tea Party recruiters to exploit the coalition of the willing.

The Master was becoming fidgety as the violins signaled the next course in creating a satisfactory candidate. “We must perfect the perfect candidate —in my time!” the master said as he entered the dismal work chamber.

“That would be a great title for your memoirs, Sir!” Eye Gore responded.

But it was of no use. The Master’s latest heart had been injected with a Minnesota accent, a feminine face that could attract only the most fabulous of men, and a spirit deep with historical anachronism and truths far from self-evident. “Mr. President,” the newly created debater for all that matters in the mechanical hearts of the GOP began,” Your Jobs Act does not create any new jobs. That’s a shame, because I remember a time when the Founding Fathers maintained 100 percent employment in the Black community!”